


Little Losses

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Holiday: xmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair finds a present he'd forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Losses

**Author's Note:**

> Set 13 years in the future. WARNING: minor character death. Major depression warning.

## Little Losses

by Phoenix4

Author's webpage: <http://www.concentric.net/~phoenix4/slashdex.htm>

Author's disclaimer: They belong to Pet Fly Productions, and Paramount, and UPN, and Cris-Craft. Did I leave anyone out? The story's mine, even though I wish it weren't.   


* * *

Disclaimer: They belong to Pet Fly Productions, and Paramount, and UPN, and Cris-Craft. Did I leave anyone out? The story's mine, even though I wish it weren't. 

Warnings: Minor character death. Major depression alert. You might want to have someone to hug on standby. 

Dedication: to everyone who's missing someone this time of year. I love you, Nanny. 

Little Losses 

by  
Phoenix4 

December 1998 

* * *

Jim stared at what used to be the door to the loft in bemusement. Real evergreen boughs framed the doorway, tiny white lights twinkling amid the fragrant needles. The flat green door had been replaced with a disconcertingly realistic painting of a large window overlooking a winter wonderland. Through the glass, tiny figures rode sleds, skated, played with dreidels, sang carols, and decorated trees. The level of detail was astounding; Sandburg must have done one hell of a favor for the art department at the University. Even the knob had been painted to blend in. 

Finally he shrugged and unlocked the door. It had needed a new coat of paint anyway, but it would be a shame to paint over such a masterpiece. He hoped the artist had taken pictures. 

He knew Blair was home, since his car was in the parking lot, so he didn't bother listening for the younger man before he opened the door. One welcome change to finally getting kicked up to Captain, he mused. Revenge-crazed thugs hadn't broken into the loft for a good four years now. He didn't have to do a sensory sweep of his home before he entered anymore. 

He hung up his coat and dropped his keys in the basket. "I'm home, babe," he called absently, as he flipped through the mail. 

A muffled sob answered him. 

The reflexes were still there; before he could take a breath, his gun was in his hand. Alert eyes scanned for any dangers while his hearing automatically verified that only he and Sandburg were in the loft. //Damn. Getting complacent in your old age, Ellison.// 

Sensing no immediate danger, he lowered his gun but kept it in his hand. "Blair, are you all right?" 

//What a stupid question, idiot. Of course, he's not all right.// He tracked Blair's heartbeat to their bedroom upstairs. He'd climbed half the stairs before Blair's soft, tear-soaked voice whispered, "I'm fine." 

//And there's an even more stupid answer.// His heart clenched when he found his lover huddled into a ball on the bed, his back turned to the railing. "Are you sick, Chief?" 

Silver threads in the loose brown curls caught the light of the dying sunset as Blair shook his head silently and shuddered with another stifled sob. Jim stifled a flare of impatience with the skill of fifteen years' practice and holstered his gun. He hated the rare times Sandburg got like this, so mired in whatever he was feeling that words deserted him. Mostly he hated it because then _he_ had to find the words for his partner, and god knew he was still lousy at it. 

He racked his brain for a reason for Blair's depression, but didn't find any clues. Blair was normally so even-tempered, it took a lot to throw him this badly. Simon was doing fine as Chief of Police, Jim was getting used to the routine of being Captain, and Blair was wrapping up the fall semester at Ranier and starting a new book. No horrible crimes had rocked the city, and the weather had been unseasonably warm and dry. With Christmas two weeks away, everyone in Cascade was in a good mood. Except, apparently, for his Guide, who wasn't talking. 

Jim took a deep breath as he stepped closer to the bed. The faint scent of sweetgrass, lavender and rose tickled his nose, and he glanced at the open box in front of the closet with a sinking heart. He knew the answer now, all too well. "Oh, baby," he whispered softly, aching. 

Blair sniffed but didn't turn to look at him. "I wanted to get those hand-tied flies wrapped for Simon, the ones we bought this summer in Monterey. So I pulled out the box of presents we stashed in the closet, and there it was..." 

Jim remembered wandering the booths of the craft fair back in June, watching his partner dash from vendor to vendor with the same enthusiasm that had driven him nuts when they first met. An herbalist selling dream pillows finally captured Blair's attention, and he'd spent over half an hour discussing the perfect mix of herbs for Naomi's gift. Lavender, for relaxation. Bergamot, to dispel stress. Rose, for sweet dreams. And sweetgrass, because Naomi loved the scent. When they returned to Cascade, Blair wrapped the pillow in plastic and put it away for the winter holidays. 

The call came on a Tuesday morning in late August, and Jim watched helplessly as his lover crumbled beneath its weight. A blood clot, silent and insidious, stopped Naomi's breathing while she slept. No warning, no way to prepare. And no chance to say goodbye. Blair had raged and grieved, then slowly put himself back together again. The fall semester started, and the world went on. And if sometimes Blair looked a little lost, a little adrift, Jim made sure he was there to be his anchor until his Guide found his feet again. 

Jim didn't bother with platitudes that he knew neither of them would believe. Instead he stripped off his work clothes, then gently undressed his partner without dislodging his grip on the small pillow. He wrapped them in the quilt Naomi had given them as a wedding present, then wrapped himself around Blair. Maybe he couldn't shield his Guide from this pain, but he could at least share it. 

"You weren't expecting it," he murmured. "It had to be a shock." 

The younger man shuddered hard and whispered, "I picked it up, and honest to god, Jim, I thought, 'better get this to the post office soon, so it'll get there in time.' And th-then it hit me. I d-don't know where to send it--" 

Jim rocked the weeping man gently, blotting a few tears of his own into the tumbled curls on his pillow. He knew Naomi's death had hit Blair hard; she was the only family he'd ever had. What Jim hadn't expected was how much _he_ missed her. Missed her bright smile and serenity. Even missed her sage. 

Death didn't just deal a single numbing blow, he thought. For every person you lose, for everyone you grieve, there are always little losses waiting in the wings. Anniversaries, birthdays, holiday tables with an empty chair. 

And gifts lovingly chosen in the bright summer, then packed away to be found again in the dark winter. 

"Tell me this gets better," Blair pleaded softly. 

Jim stroked the curly hair away from his lover's face, using the habitual gesture to calm both of them. "It will, in time. One day, you'll hear a song on the radio and think, 'That's mama's favorite song.' And you'll smile, because it reminds you of how she would dance around the kitchen with you whenever it played." He took a deep, unsteady breath and pressed a kiss to Blair's forehead. "And for a few moments, angel, it's like she's standing right there, hugging you. The love's still gonna be there once the pain fades." 

Blair sniffed, accepting a handkerchief from Jim and slowly relaxing from the tight curl of misery he'd been in when the older man came home. For long moments they lay tangled silently in the gathering darkness. Just when Jim thought Blair had fallen asleep, the younger man asked, "What was it?" 

"What was what, Chief?" 

A sharp elbow nudged him in the ribs. "Your mom's favorite song. What was it?" 

The memory made Jim smile, taking him back to a time before the fights and the cold silences drove the warmth from his home. Back before his mother gave up hope and walked out. This was one of the most precious gifts his Guide had given him - the ability to regain the good memories he had repressed along with the bad ones. "Roy Orbison's 'Pretty Woman'," he answered, absently rocking his lover to the beat of the music in his memory. "We'd do the stroll around the kitchen table and the bump in front of the sink. At six, I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that Roy had written the song just for her." He paused a bit, then asked gently, "What was Naomi's favorite song?" 

A watery chuckle answered him. "I don't know, man; she liked a lot of different music. Folk, Celtic, rock, New Age. You think _my_ taste in music is eclectic...But if I had to pick a song for her, it'd be 'Born Free.'" 

//Born free, as free as the grass grows...born free to follow your heart.// Jim laughed a little. The song described Naomi perfectly. "Uh, it's...well." he mumbled diplomatically. 

Blair snorted and rolled over on top of the larger man. Even with his face red and damp, he still made Jim's heart skip as the familiar twinkle reignited in his eyes. "It's sentimental swill," he admitted easily. "What can you expect from the decade that brought us 'Honey' and 'Muskrat Love'?" 

Laughing harder, Jim hugged him until he squeaked, then rolled them both to the side. Gentle fingers carded through the silky hair he still loved to play in; he felt a fleeting pang as he noticed the silver had begun to outnumber the chestnut. His own hair was little more than a fringe now. Blair loved to run his fingers over the soft bristles at his nape and watch his Sentinel shiver. So many little reminders of time passing, Jim thought. 

But the eyes that needed bifocals now were still the same deep, pure blue he'd fallen in love with so long ago. The same smile still had the power to light up his world. The same compassionate, loving heart still beat the rhythm that lulled him to sleep each night. 

And in the end, Jim decided, that was the most important thing to remember. The love always remains. 

"Better now?" he asked. 

Blair captured his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. With a brave half-smile he replied, "Yeah. Much better now. It just hit me without warning, and I forgot for a little while." 

Jim frowned, puzzled, as the other man got up and grabbed his jeans. "How about Chinese tonight? It's getting pretty late," Blair asked. 

"Fine," Jim replied absently. "Forgot what?" 

Snapping his jeans, Blair leaned over and kissed his furrowed brow. "Stop that; you're developing a permanent worry line. People are going to think you're either perpetually pissed or constantly constipated." He moved nimbly out of the way as Jim growled and swiped at him. 

He paused at the foot of the bed with his discarded sweatshirt in hand. In another lightening-fast change of mood, he gave Jim a sad smile and answered his question. "I forgot I wasn't alone. When Naomi died, I felt like an abandoned child. For a while, it was like someone had taken away everything that kept my world turning. Then I finally realized that wasn't true. You were still here, so I wasn't really alone." 

Jim swallowed hard, feeling his eyes burn and knowing there wasn't a damn thing he could do to hide it. He opened his arms and Blair flew to him. It took two tries before he could get the words out. "Baby, I can't promise I'll never leave you," he whispered. "I wish I could. But I will promise to love you with everything I have. If I go, I want to make sure you can still feel me loving you until it's time for you to join me. And I'll be waiting for you." 

Blair clutched him tighter. "No more," he said, his voice choked. "Enough about dying tonight, okay? I can't...can't even _think_ about that." His kiss devoured Jim in its desperation. "Love me. Love me until all I can think about is living so we can do it again." 

"Always, babe. Always have, always will." And that was a promise he knew he could keep. 

The End 

Always have, always will  
Take my word  
I will love you until  
The night has no stars   
And the beat of my heart stands still.  
Always have, always will. 

(Paul Nelson, Larry Boone, Woody Lee) 


End file.
